The Adventure of the Jade Seal
by Steampunkmagic
Summary: Victorian AU: When a shipping magnate dies of a Chinese poison, London's most famous detective Sherlock Holmes teams up with Joan Watson, the daughter of a Chinese diplomat, to solve the case. Battling crime lords, racism, and each other's passions these detectives may just change the course of history.
1. The Party

**This is based on a picspam of this idea I posted on tumblr so I decided to actually write the full thing.**

**Also this is an alternate history version of Victorian London so that Detective Bell can still be a Detective and Joan can wear cool outfits, and other things you'll discover along the way.**

**As always I love comments and reviews!**

**Enjoy ;D**

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><p>Bodies turn in time with the melody of a string quartet in dull revolving patterns. The crowded ballroom rings with the chatter of a multitude of voices and clinking glasses and plates. It is a distracting if not altogether unpleasant cacophony. <p>

Bored, bored, bored. Sherlock stares at the chandler absently calculating what it would take to make it fall and effectively end this dreadful evening. Richly overdressed party goers cannot waltz when there are crystal shards all over the dance floor. Though that would also lead to panic, and humans are so predictable when they panic. All the screaming, running about, and generally being ridiculous. 

He fidgets in the expensive clothes Captain Gregson forced him to wear on pain of death. The excessive fabric around his neck is slowly cutting off the oxygen to his brain. That plus all the idle gossip of London's most elite figures set his teeth of edge. It is rather like listening to chickens cluck. 

"I still do not understand why I needed to be here." Sherlock huffs. 

"We got a tip something's going to happen tonight." Gregson responds dryly, looking like a pillar of justice against the wall in his dress blues. 

"You have plenty of your own men." He points out, fingers twitching against his thigh. 

There are two lawyers pretending not to know each other, over by the buffet table, but they are clearly lovers. Sherlock wonders why they even bother, since they cannot hide their body language. 

"Not all my men are you." Gregson says, abet reluctantly, he never likes to stoke Sherlock's ego if he can help it. 

"True." He jerks his head in agreement. "Yet, all I have seen at this hell so far is underhanded business dealings and stilted ex-lovers, nothing remarkable by any means." 

"And let's keep it that way." The Captain heads off to the other side of the crowded ballroom towards were Detective Sergeant Bell is lurking in the corner. 

Internally grumbling, Sherlock attempts to focus on anything other than the deducible lives of the people around him. He could learn half the nation's dirty laundry by the end of the night if he wanted, yet that would not help him in any way. This party is one of the most important events of the year, every major politician, businessman, and diplomat all milling about together in one location. That is also why it is a security nightmare, which forces nearly all of Scotland Yard -and apparently one Consulting Detective - to be in attendance as well. 

Sherlock almost wants something to go wrong just to end his boredom. He could be back at Baker Street with his bees and a good book. Alas, instead he is going to die here, in a stuffy royal blue waistcoat, of asphyxiation due to ladies perfume. Hopefully someone remembers to put that on his grave. 

Halfway through another turn around the room of colorful dresses and dark suits, Sherlock spots someone who looks equally irritated with the evening's proceedings. A young woman of oriental origin - Chinese he'd wager by the shape of her eyes and her remarkably detailed traditional dress - is being lead around the dance floor by a spectacularly rotund man in his late fifties. From the pinching of her perfectly sculpted lips and the line deepening between her brows, the woman is trying hard not to hit her dance partner. 

There is always something about a person that belays their intelligence, from the way they hold themselves, to the way the move their hands. That intelligence can always been found in the eyes. People often say eyes are the windows to the soul, and while Sherlock does not hold with such superstitious nonsense, it does have some merit in that regard. In the case of the glaring young woman, Sherlock can unquestionably see intellect sparkling in her dark eyes. Quite a bit of intellect actually. 

"Mind if I cut in?" Sherlock taps the large man on the shoulder sharply. Before the opium magnate - the company's label is on his cufflinks - realizes what has happened, Sherlock sizes the girl's hands and whisks her away. "Thank you." He calls back cheekily over his shoulder. 

"Well that was rude." The woman states in perfectly accented English, falling into step with him easily. Her gaze narrows in suspicion. 

"Better that then let you stab him with one of your hair pins." He pulls a face at her. "I doubt that would go over well with this particular crowd." 

She raises her eyebrows in surprise. It is a common occurrence whenever he opens his mouth - also people often try to punch him. 

Sherlock glances back at the business man who is now ambling back towards the tea sandwiches. From his pasty skin and sweaty brow it is only a matter of time before he suffers a coronary. Not that he is one to judge, his own eating habits tend to revolve around whatever is within arm's reach at the time. Also lots of breakfast foods. 

"It was clear he was upsetting you from your expression." He explains lightly, moving in step with the music. Dancing is not his forte, but his new partner seems graceful enough. Her embroidered purple and red robes lightly brush the ground. "I thought it fit to intervene." 

She tilts her head making the gold and jade beads trailing from her hairpins sway. It is interesting she has made no attempt to appear English, like the other people of foreign birth at the event. It is though she stepped out of the book on silk paintings he has in his library. 

"Thank you, though I had it under control." She says. "I've dealt with worse." 

From her tone he does not doubt it. "Never the less, I was considering setting the curtains on fire and this is probably a much healthier distraction." 

She laughs, her whole face brightening. The song ends making the people around them clap politely. Sherlock lets go over her immediately returning to his normal ridged posture. 

"Joan Watson." She smiles, holding out a delicate hand. 

"Watson?" He frowns quizzically at the purely English name, taking her hand. 

Joan sighs good-naturedly. This is something she's been asked many times before. "My grandfather was British Navy and my parents found it best to give me an English name. It helps since my father works in diplomatic trade relations." 

It made sense in a backwards sort of way. "Sherlock Holmes." He adds quickly. 

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><p>Joan is intrigued by her pseudo knight in shining armor. Crooked bowtie, messy hair, and socially uncomfortable. She likes his abrasive mannerisms instantly. Also she recognizes the name. "The detective? I've read about you in the papers." <p>

He scrunches his face at that, rocking back on his heels. "The media loves its dramatics." He says dismissively. 

They continue to stand in the middle of the parquet floor as another song begins. People waltz past them; several shooting curious glances in their direction. Sherlock seems almost oblivious which is refreshing. He doesn't look down his nose at her or speak to her as if she were a child - or a concubine as with the whoremonger she had just been forced to dance with. It is almost as though Sherlock does not realize that is what society expects him to do. 

"Are you here with the Yard?" Joan could not help noticing the uniformed officers standing around the building all night. Though the men are mostly likely there simply for protection, it does make her a little nervous. 

Sherlock tugs at his clothes, his gaze carefully moving around the room. "I certainly wouldn't be here otherwise." He says frowning with distaste at their opulent surroundings. 

Joan smiles at his petulant expression. He is quite an unusual fellow, in a charming sort of way. "I would have liked to avoid the evening as well. There is nothing here but money and politics, and those are two of the most uninteresting things on the planet." 

Something like approval colors his features at her comment. He is about the say something more when he freezes, staring at a point over her shoulder. Joan spins around following his serious gaze and locks in on what he sees immediately. There is a middle aged man with a bushy salt and pepper mustache leaning against the floral papered wall opposite them for support. His top hat falls to the floor when he doubles over wheezing for breath, hand clutching at his own throat in desperation. She can see the flush of his skin even from this distance which spells nothing good. 

Sherlock takes off dodging between couples and scandalized women. Joan lifts her robes so she will not trip on the heavy silks and sprints after him. Decorum does not matter if a man is choking to death. The other officers converge at Sherlock's shout, rushing in from all directions. 

The man slides to the floor just as they reach him, his body slump and unresponsive. Joan drops to her knees beside Sherlock and they roll the man onto his back. He is a heavy death weight. As a woman she was not allowed to practice medicine, yet that never stopped Joan from studying it. Every medical and herbalist text she's ever read flashes through Joan's mind as her eyes categorize the symptoms before her. Slow pulse, shallow breathing, and tightly contracted pupils. The man is fading fast. 

"Poison." Sherlock mutters softly. 

All she can do is nod in agreement as the man stops breathing altogether. Joan kneels, in a shocked-silent room, beside a man she has just met and watches as the last spark of life leaves the body of a man she does not know at all. Every clock in the world seems to have stopped ticking in that one moment. 


	2. Seeds of Something

**Hello my lovelies! **

**I was pleasantly surprised by the reaction this has gotten and it is just so much fun to write! **

**Note on layout of 221B: It's just the Brownstone with a new address.**

**Note on Science: _Don't worry about it._ I keep to facts when I can, but do take a little creative license here and there... **

**I'd love to hear for you all! Enjoy :D**

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><p><em><strong>Ch.2<strong>_

_**-Seeds of Something-**_

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><p>"This is insane!" Her mother shouts in mandarin. The cymbal crash of her arm bangles accenting her frustrations, making Joan wince. "People die all the time. There is no reason for you to get involved." <p>

Joan counts her breaths trying to maintain her inner calm - something she has considerable trouble with where her mother was concerned. "Okay yes, people die. But they do not die like that." She says firmly, eyes flashing like ebony knifes. Why can her mother not understand why this is so important? A man just died in her arms. Joan wants to know why! 

"Hubert King was murdered." Joan says slowly as if that will make her words sink in. "Probably in that ballroom and because of that I am involved in this wither you like it or not." 

The two women stare at each other over the parlor table, a pair of immovable mountains, waiting for the other to blink first. Her mother only ever wants what is best for her - or at least what she thinks is best for her daughter. Yet Joan is no wall ornament waiting for a husband to add her to his collection. Something her parents are beginning to panic over as she nears her 23 birthday. 

Joan has very different ideas about her life. 

After a minute her mother let out a world weary sigh of defeat, shoulders slumping under her violet taffeta day dress. "Please, honey, I am simply worried about you. You cannot go gallivanting around London un-chaperoned and you certainly cannot visit an Englishman's home without one! People may talk." 

Joan always wonders who these 'people' are. "Mr. Holmes is investigating the killing, who else would I speak to? It will be fine, Mother." She pats her mother's hand, soft from lilac talcum, reassuringly. 

The lines of concern in her mother's features do not soften, yet she does not argue further. 

Joan smiles sunshine bright at this small allowance of freedom. "I will be back before supper." She calls grabbing her long crimson coat and dashing out the door. 

Her dove gray button hook shoes click against the pavement as she skips down the front steps to the sidewalk. Two suited men strolling on the street look up at her in surprise as she flashes past to hail a cab. Joan knows she stands out against the dreary backdrop of London, lithe form dressed in pink silk cheongsam and a tailored British jacket that fell to mid calf. She is entirely out of place. 

A dappled mare pulls up alongside her its docile, sweet gaze eyes her carefully searching for hidden apples. The cabbie, who sat atop the carriage trundling along behind, tipped his hat. "'ere to Miss?" His cockney accent is nearly as thick as his mustache. 

"221B Baker Street." She takes the offered hand up into the cab. 

"The detective, eh?" He chuckles at her surprise, turning back to steer the horse. "Everyone knows Mr. Holmes, Miss. Everyone who works the streets anyways." 

With that rather cryptic remark they set off into the swirling fog which lay thick on the cobble streets. Hoof beats echoing off the early morning gloom. Joan does not believe in signs, but she had to shiver at the damp chill. 

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><p>Clyde watches Sherlock work with a level of disapproval that he thinks the tortoise must have learned from Ms. Hudson. He drops arsenic into a beaker doing his best to ignore the judgmental wrinkly gaze. <p>

"This is becoming insufferable." Sherlock reaches over to spin the turtle to face the opposite direction. "You're supposed to be on my side." He huffs. 

The table in front of him is covered in beakers, bubbling pots, and colorful powders with sinister smells. Clouds of dark midnight storm hues float above his head, thickening by the minute, issuing from the experiment before him. The sulfur fumes are sure to bring his landlady down on him, but Sherlock has done worse without Ms. Hudson deciding to shoot him. 

The concoction brewing on the table suddenly turns a brilliant shade of emerald. 

"Bollocks!" 

Negative again. This is the sixth test he has done and he still has no clue what poison killed Mr. King. It usually took him less than a minute to deduce cause of death. But so far all Sherlock has determined is that it is **_not_** arsenic, nightshade, hemlock, lead, or monkshood, or anything else it could have been. He kicks his chair in frustration. 

"What in heaven's name are you doing in here?" Demands a prim voice in alarm. 

Ms. Hudson stands in the doorway of his parlor looking every bit as horrified as he expected her to. The blonde woman runs for the windows in her usual loud, feather ruffled way. "You are going to kill us all!" 

Sherlock grumbles at his landlady in put-on irritation - he knew he probably would have starved to death ages ago without her meddling. The storm clouds begin to waft out into the cool damp breeze, slowly clearing the room. Ms. Hudson helps the smoke along by waving a worn copy of Shakespeare's sonnets at it furiously. 

"Why are you barging in her e in the middle of my work?" He groans, dropping melodramatically into an overstuffed chair and rubbing his stubbled features. 

"There is a woman here to see you!" By her tone one would think this revelation is nothing sort of a miracle, all things considered it is probably true. What lady would come here? "A pretty woman, by herself no less!" 

Ms. Hudson suddenly turns, floral hat wobbling precariously, to level a hawk like glare at him. Sherlock sinks back into the cushions in instinctive alarm. 

"And just so you know, I am going to stay right here. So if you try anything forward mister I will stab you with the fire poker. Now straighten your shirt, dear." With that she flounders back out of the room before he can respond. 

"What does think I'm going to do?" Sherlock asks Clyde, who has finally rotated back to face him, in offense. 

The tortoise merely blinks at him. 

"Well you're a lode of help." Frowning he gets up and tugs at his waistcoat, only making his appearance more askew. 

The sounds of female voices come from the entryway, causing him to jump to attention, as though his spine were an iron rod. Sherlock is never sure precisely how to act towards the fairer sex - or anyone, if he is being honest. At least now he knows who his guest is. 

Joan Watson is shown into the parlor and he is struck by the oddest of observations upon seeing her among his décor. She fits in perfectly. Her very being fits seamlessly into the eclectic mishmash of the room.

"Miss Watson." Sherlock feels off balanced by the strange errant thought. "How nice to see you again." 

"I apologize for coming unannounced." Joan bows her head politely. The gold flowers in her hair sparkle in the weak sunlight with the movement. 

"No matter." He claps his hands together and waves her towards the shabby sofa awkwardly. "You are here about the case, yes?" 

She laughs lightly, breaking some of the tension between them. Tension which is probably his doing, not hers. "I guess that's obvious." 

"Why don't I get us all some hot tea?" Ms. Hudson smiles, once Joan has taken her seat. She gives Sherlock a stern warning glance before adding. "I shall only be gone a moment." 

"Hurry back! I might murder her while you're getting out the cakes!" He petulantly yells after Ms. Hudson's retreating form. 

His guest raises her delicate eyebrows in a quizzical expression. Joan seems more amused than worried, however, which fits with what Sherlock has deduced of her character thus far. Watson is far from a shrinking violet. 

"My landlady seems to believe I'm some kind of cad and I will do something horribly untoward the instant her back is turned." 

To her credit, Joan's cheeks only color slightly as this remark. "Do you often do untoward things then?" 

Sherlock makes a show of thinking it over, bouncing on his heels. "Only according to some people." 

"Some, but not all?" 

"No, not all." He grins, flopping back into his favorite salmon pink armchair. Joan is remarkably unmoved by his mannerisms and that has Sherlock instantly intrigued. 

"What progress have you made with the case?" She questions abruptly, leaning forward in her seat.

"Frightfully little I'm afraid." Sherlock admits with a tired breath. Admitting difficulty with anything is unusual for him, yet he does not mind so much right now. 

"Then I have something which may help." Joan declares with an upward curve of her lips. She slips a hand into a hidden pocket fold of her pale rose dress and produces a small white apothecary bag. It rattles as she hands it over to him, indicating it must contain seeds of some variety or other. 

"I believe this is what the killer used to poison Mr. King." 

Carefully Sherlock opens the tiny packet to inspect the tiny brown-black seeds nestled inside. There innocuous shape is recognizable to him for several reasons, many of them unpleasant. For this particular bit of plant matter also generated poisons of a less toxic variety. 

"Poppy seeds." He glances up at Joan, gray eyes serious, regarding her with new insight. "Of course. It is a special breed is it not?" 

Joan nods, a spark in her eyes at his reaction. "I recognized the distinctive blue discoloring of the victim's fingertips. So I went searching the herbalist shops in Chinatown." 

She really does fit in here. Sherlock steeples his fingers, leaning towards her. "Miss Watson, how would you feel about doing some investigating?" 

"Sherlock!" Came Ms. Hudson's outraged voice behind him. 


	3. Mazes

It is funny to be doing a Victorian!AU of a Modern!AU of a Victorian story ... Sherlock-ception !  
>If you think about that one took long your brain will hurt :)<p>

I really cannot believe the response this silly little story has gotten. Seriously thanks guys you are wonderful!  
>Your support really inspires me to keep writing :) <em>*throws heart confetti at you*<em>

_Story Notes:_  
>Abydos is the name of a place in Egypt not a type of poppy I just made that up.<br>Limehouse is real though.  
>and Homicide and Serious Crimes Unit is a part of *New* Scotland Yard - like I said before Alternate History <p>

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><p><strong><em>Ch.3<em>**

**_-Mazes-_**

Scotland Yard is a rather unfortunate location for most people, full to the brim with mad men shrieking, whistles blowing, and a layer of grease on every surface. Sherlock finds it calming, there are too many things to focus on at once which forms a perfect investigative hum. 

It is in this mess of squalled humanity and brass buttons that lives the _Homicide and Serious Crimes Unit_ and its head, one Captain Gregson. Sherlock sent a message ahead with one of his irregulars to let him know he and Miss Watson were coming - the boys of Baker Street are quicker than the post by far, so they should be expected. 

Joan floats at his side as they make their way through the maze; the curve of her brow is the only indication that she is uncomfortable. He assumes it is due to the obvious lingering stares of the officers and prisoners alike, which follow where ever she moves. It is even setting his hairs on end, how can she stand this on a daily basis? Does this occur on a daily basis for her? He must keep track. 

Just as they reach the doors to _Homicide_ a young constable steps in Sherlock's path looking somewhat embarrassed. The apple cheeks and round blue eyes sparks Sherlock's memory, Edison, the boy's name is Edison. 

"I am sorry Mr. Holmes, Sir, but I can't let your girl in. Some professions the Cap'n doesn't allow." Edison tips his hat to Joan with a wink. "No matter how pretty." 

Sherlock huffs in irritation opening his mouth to begin a tirade on how the man was clearly never going to succeed as an investigator if he actually thought his companion, with her clean skin and personally tailored clothing, could be a doxy. What an imbecile. 

Or at least that is what he was going to say before Joan speaks first. 

"What profession would that be?" She asks with false-innocence, her accent now a hundred percent Oxford British. "They do not let domestic ambassadors into police stations now days?" 

The constable turns scarlet and makes a gagging sound. Sherlock raises his eyebrows in interest wondering for a moment if the man has managed to swallow his own tongue. He has never seen what that would do to a person and would find it a very informative experience. Yet, Edison continues breathing, if haltingly so. Pity. 

"Of course they do Miss - ah - Ma'am. I - uh- I mean… Go right in." 

"Thank you, constable." Joan smiles leading Sherlock passed him. 

"That was remarkably well done, Watson." He bounces after her nodding his support of her passive aggressive tactics. 

She shoots him a sideways look - the likes of which nearly makes lighting crash in the small precinct - to show how little she requires his approval in this matter. Sherlock likes that, though saying so would most likely irritate her further, most women he meets seemed to have to backbone bred out of them. 

The Captain waves them into his office without further ado, standing up to offer Joan one of the two shabby visitors' chairs and assuming Sherlock can find the other one himself. 

"I can ask Detective Bell to fetch us some tea if you like?" Gregson attempts to be a proper gentleman, looking somewhat unsure with the presence of a lady in his office. 

Joan laughs lightly setting him at ease. "No thank you, Captain, I am quite alright." 

"Apparently I do not warrant tea?" Sherlock mutters, slumping into the old chair beside her. 

"You know where it is." Gregson says without bothering to look at him. 

He pulls a face and slouches back into the chair, as Joan's mood obviously lightens. 

"I was told you are helping Mr. Holmes on the case?" Gregson queries glancing between them with crease in his brow. 

"Yes I came across this." She says pulling out the white bag from her ridicule and handing it over. "Abydos Poppy seeds, it is what poisoned Mr. King." 

The Captain turns his steady gaze to Sherlock for conformation, slate-blue eyes serious. 

He bobs his head in assent. "We tested." 

"How common is this stuff?" Gregson pours the minuscule seeds out onto his palm and holds them up to the light for inspection. 

"Abydos only grows in a small region of China, taken from two breeds of the Afghan Province. It is quite rare." Joan informs him with a tilt of her head. 

"Which makes it easier to figure out who is buying the stuff." 

The Captain sighs leaning back in his creaking chair. "In this city? Are you kidding? There are more opium addicts than Christians walking the streets." 

He taps his fingers against his thigh. One. Two. Three. "Yes, but they cannot all be connected to our Mr. King, now can they?" 

Gregson levels Sherlock with his best stare. "You better hope not." 

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><p>Firecrackers explode in a series of teeth rattling pops down the alley as their cab arrives in the Limehouse District, the Chinatown - and almost every other kind of town - of London. The smells of curry powder and rot lay thick upon the air in equal measure. There is beauty and horror here, greatest sorrow and genius hidden behind each dilapidated doorway and watchful stone dragon's eye. <p>

"My mother would have an aneurism if she knew where I was. I had a runner fetch the Abydos the first time." Joan remarks, her eyes on the painted ladies whose hollow gazes follow them across the street. 

"She sounds an interesting woman." Sherlock mutters looking over her head. Joan and her mother could not be as dissimilar as he and his father could they? Perhaps so. 

Joan quiets a moment, prompting him to glance in her direction. The crease which says she is troubled is between her brows again. "She does not approve of my choices." She says softly. 

They weave their way in between bodies and street merchants, Sherlock's arm awkwardly stiff in hers to keep them from being separated by the throng. 

"Ah? Your new foray into detective work." It is not a question. From Ms. Hudson's reaction this morning he can only assume what her family's would be. 

"Well, yes _that_. But it is more my spinsterhood which she cannot understand. Every other woman of 22 at my station is married with at least two children - something she reminds me of constantly - and**_ not_** helping their fathers with government work." 

The sudden thought of Joan Watson cooking and cleaning for a faceless and personality-less man who bed her every night so she could produce his equally personality-less children is so shocking and disturbing that Sherlock freezes. The woman, who he has inadvertently also jerked to a halt beside him, could _never_ be reconciled with that particular mental image. 

"What?!" Joan gasps, falling into him as the sudden loss of momentum pulls her heels out from under her. 

Her ebony, braided-silk hair in now directly under his nose. She smells like tea cakes with the faintest hint of cinnamon. Sherlock turns to marble only relaxing as she rights herself and steps away, ignoring the group of laughing children watching from a tenement doorway. 

"Nothing Miss Watson, I simply cannot fathom the waste of investigative talent - even the small amount of talent you have shown thus far." 

She makes an irritated catlike noise at the back of her throat and rolls her dark hers eyes in response. Straightening her coat, she mutters. "Thank you, I suppose."

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><p>Joan is not entirely sure if Sherlock is insulting her or complementing her - not matter what comes out of his mouth. He is abrasive and irritating and somehow charming for it, which makes no logical sense. About as much sense as her gallivanting around Limehouse unchaperoned. So all things in perspective… <p>

Merchants, vagrants, and hecklers call out them in Cantonese, mandarin, English, and all variations therein, trying to sell them jewelry, potions, clothes, house wares, even a cure for baldness - which makes Sherlock glare intensely while she laughs. Eventually though they fight their way through to the small herbalist shop they need, nestled between a fruit stand and a shabby import dealer. 

It looks no different from the dozen or so others around - which is to say questionable. Joan can hardly make out the characters hand painted in red above the door proclaiming the place to be, _'Dr. Lee's'._ Looking past the mounds of dried herbs and other more unusual substances to the reedy man behind the counter, Joan seriously doubts the 'Dr.' part of the statement. Honestly, the 'Lee' is pretty questionable as well. 

Thousands of years of professional medical practice being reduced to the back alley of a dockland slum is all Joan can see as they step inside the cramped space. The contents of these soups and poultices have been curing aliments for as long as there have been aliments, yet in the western world using them is considered superstitious nonsense. She finds it rather depressing. 

"Can I help you?" Lee asks Joan nervously in Cantonese, his gaze darting towards Sherlock over her shoulder. His voice is as thin as his body, his lips twitching. 

"You are the only shop that sells Abydos Poppy Seeds, yes?" Sherlock jumps to the point stepping up to the stained, cluttered counter. His use of the Chinese dialect surprises Joan. 

Lee shrinks back in response, nearly vanishing into the shadows cast by the dried ragweed hanging overhead, though there is no threat in Sherlock's tone. The man nods repeatedly. Intimidation is clearly something the local shop owners are accustomed to expect. 

She steps in hoping to reassure Lee that they mean him no harm. Smiling with a slight, respectful inclination of her head, Joan says. "We are looking for anyone who has bought the seeds recently, most likely in a large batch. Can you recall anyone like that?" 

Lee's watery gaze focuses on her face as if to discern her character. Whatever he sees there must be good because his face brightens and he nods again, this time more slowly. 

Joan blinks, noticing Sherlock stand straighter in equal surprise. She did not actually expect the shop owner to remember anything of value, nor did it seemed did Sherlock. 

"You are looking for the Man in the Suit." Dr. Lee says in English. 


End file.
